10,000 Vintage Recipe Books Are Now Digitized in The Internet Archive’s Cookbook & Home Economics Collection

“Ear­ly cook­books were fit for kings,” writes Hen­ry Notak­er at The Atlantic. “The old­est pub­lished recipe col­lec­tions” in the 15th and 16th cen­turies in West­ern Europe “emanat­ed from the palaces of mon­archs, princes, and grand señores.” Cook­books were more than recipe collections—they were guides to court eti­quette and sump­tu­ous records of lux­u­ri­ous liv­ing. In ancient Rome, cook­books func­tioned sim­i­lar­ly, as the extrav­a­gant fourth cen­tu­ry Cook­ing and Din­ing in Impe­r­i­al Rome demon­strates.

Writ­ten by Api­cius, “Europe’s old­est [cook­book] and Rome’s only one in exis­tence today”—as its first Eng­lish trans­la­tor described it—offers “a bet­ter way of know­ing old Rome and antique pri­vate life.” It also offers keen insight into the devel­op­ment of heav­i­ly fla­vored dish­es before the age of refrig­er­a­tion. Api­cus rec­om­mends that “cooks who need­ed to pre­pare birds with a ‘goat­ish smell’ should bathe them in a mix­ture of pep­per, lovage, thyme, dry mint, sage, dates, hon­ey, vine­gar, broth, oil and mus­tard,” Melanie Radz­ic­ki McManus notes at How Stuff Works.

Ear­ly cook­books com­mu­ni­cat­ed in “a folksy, impre­cise man­ner until the Indus­tri­al Rev­o­lu­tion of the 1800s,” when stan­dard (or met­ric) mea­sure­ment became de rigueur. The first cook­book by an Amer­i­can, Amelia Sim­mons’ 1796 Amer­i­can Cook­ery, placed British fine din­ing and lav­ish “Queen’s Cake” next to “john­ny cake, fed­er­al pan cake, buck­wheat cake, and Indi­an slap­jack,” Kei­th Stave­ly and Kath­leen Fitzger­ald write at Smith­son­ian, all recipes sym­bol­iz­ing “the plain, but well-run and boun­ti­ful Amer­i­can home.” With this book, “a dia­logue on how to bal­ance the sump­tu­ous with the sim­ple in Amer­i­can life had begun.”

Cook­books are win­dows into history—markers of class and caste, doc­u­ments of dai­ly life, and snap­shots of region­al and cul­tur­al iden­ti­ty at par­tic­u­lar moments in time. In 1950, the first cook­book writ­ten by a fic­tion­al lifestyle celebri­ty, Bet­ty Crock­er, debuted. It became “a nation­al best-sell­er,” McManus writes. “It even sold more copies that year than the Bible.” The image of the per­fect Step­ford house­wife may have been big­ger than Jesus in the 50s, but Crock­er’s career was decades in the mak­ing. She debuted in 1921, the year of pub­li­ca­tion for anoth­er, more hum­ble recipe book: the Pil­grim Evan­gel­i­cal Luther­an Church Ladies’ Aid Soci­ety of Chicago’s Pil­grim Cook Book.

As Ayun Hal­l­i­day not­ed in an ear­li­er post, this charm­ing col­lec­tion fea­tures recipes for “Blitz Torte, Cough Syrup, and Sauer­kraut Can­dy,” and it’s only one of thou­sands of such exam­ples at the Inter­net Archive’s Cook­book and Home Eco­nom­ics Col­lec­tion, drawn from dig­i­tized spe­cial col­lec­tions at UCLA, Berke­ley, and the Prelinger Library. When we last checked in, the col­lec­tion fea­tured 3,000 cook­books. It has grown since 2016 to a library of 10,600 vin­tage exam­ples of home­spun Amer­i­cana, fine din­ing, and mass mar­ket­ing.

Laugh at gag-induc­ing recipes of old; cringe at the pious advice giv­en to women osten­si­bly anx­ious to please their hus­bands; and mar­vel at how var­i­ous inter­na­tion­al and region­al cuisines have been rep­re­sent­ed to unsus­pect­ing Amer­i­can home cooks. (It’s hard to say whether the cov­er or the con­tents of a Chi­nese Cook Book in Plain Eng­lish from 1917 seem more offen­sive.) Cook­books of recipes from the Amer­i­can South are pop­u­lar, as are cov­ers fea­tur­ing stereo­typ­i­cal “mam­my” char­ac­ters. A more respect­ful inter­na­tion­al exam­ple, 1952’s Luchow’s Ger­man Cook­book gives us “the sto­ry and the favorite dish­es of Amer­i­ca’s most famous Ger­man restau­rant.”

There are guides to mush­rooms and “com­mon­er fun­gi, with spe­cial empha­sis on the edi­ble vari­eties”; col­lec­tions of “things moth­er used to make” and, most prac­ti­cal­ly, a cook­book for left­overs. And there is every oth­er sort of cook­book and home ec. man­u­al you could imag­ine. The archive is stuffed with help­ful hints, rare ingre­di­ents, unex­pect­ed region­al cook­eries, and mil­lions of minute details about the habits of these books’ first hun­gry read­ers.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The New York Times Makes 17,000 Tasty Recipes Avail­able Online: Japan­ese, Ital­ian, Thai & Much More

Archive of Hand­writ­ten Recipes (1600 – 1960) Will Teach You How to Stew a Calf’s Head and More

A Data­base of 5,000 His­tor­i­cal Cookbooks–Covering 1,000 Years of Food History–Is Now Online

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

A Creepy 19th Century Re-Creation of the Famous Ancient Roman Statue, Laocoön and His Sons

Beware of Greeks bear­ing gifts. We’ve all heard that proverb, but few of us could name its source: the Tro­jan priest Lao­coön, a his­tor­i­cal char­ac­ter in the Aeneid. “Do not trust the Horse, Tro­jans,” Vir­gil has him say. “What­ev­er it is, I fear the Greeks even bear­ing gifts.” He was right to do so, as we all know, though his death came not at the hands of the Greek army let into Troy by the sol­diers hid­den inside the Horse, but those of the gods. As Vir­gil has it, an enraged Lao­coön threw a spear at the Horse when his com­pa­tri­ots dis­re­gard­ed words of cau­tion, and in response the god­dess Min­er­va sent forth a cou­ple of sea ser­pents to do him in.

The Aeneid, of course, offers only one account of Lao­coön’s fate. Sopho­cles, for instance, had him spared and only his sons killed, and his osten­si­ble crime — being a priest yet mar­ry­ing — had noth­ing to do with the Tro­jan Horse. But what­ev­er drew the ser­pents Lao­coön’s way, the moment they set upon him and his sons was immor­tal­ized by Rho­di­an sculp­tors Age­sander, Athen­odor­os, and Poly­dorus in Lao­coön and His Sons, among the most famous ancient sculp­tures in exis­tence since its exca­va­tion in 1506. (The sculp­ture was orig­i­nal­ly cre­at­ed some­where between 200 BC and 70 AD.) Var­i­ous trib­utes have been paid to it over the cen­turies, most notably by an Aus­tri­an anatomist named Josef Hyrtl, whose built his high­ly Hal­loween-suit­able recre­ation out of skele­tons — both human and snake.

“Accord­ing to Christo­pher Polt, an assis­tant pro­fes­sor in the clas­si­cal stud­ies depart­ment at Boston Col­lege who tweet­ed a side-by-side com­par­i­son of the two ver­sions, Hyrtl cre­at­ed his take on the sculp­ture at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Vien­na around 1850,” writes Hyper­al­ler­gic’s Valenti­na Di Lis­cia. In response, a his­to­ri­an named Gre­go­ry Stringer tweet­ed that Hyrtl must have been able to intu­it the “prop­er pose” of Lao­coön’s right arm, since in the mid-19th cen­tu­ry the sculp­ture’s orig­i­nal arm was still miss­ing, yet to be redis­cov­ered and reat­tached, and since 1510 had been replaced in copies with an incor­rect­ly out­stretched sub­sti­tute. Lao­coön and His Sons now resides at the Vat­i­can (learn more about it in the Smarthis­to­ry video below), but Hyrtl’s skele­tal Lao­coön and His Sons was destroyed in the 1945 Allied bomb­ing of Vien­na.

In 2018, a sim­i­lar project was attempt­ed again for an exhib­it at the Hous­ton Muse­um of Nat­ur­al Sci­ence. The new all-skele­ton ver­sion of Lao­coön and His Sons was cre­at­ed, as the Hous­ton Press’ Jef Rouner reports, by taxi­der­mist Lawyer Dou­glas, taxi­dermy col­lec­tor Tyler Zottarelle, and artist Joshua Ham­mond. “It looks a lot like inter­pre­ta­tive dance,” Rouner quotes Dou­glas as say­ing of Hyrtl’s work. “It’s a beau­ti­ful piece, but I was con­cerned it wasn’t able to cap­ture the orig­i­nal strug­gle of ani­mal ver­sus human.” Though Age­sander, Athen­odor­os, and Poly­dorus’ orig­i­nal is known as a “pro­to­typ­i­cal icon of human agony,” it turns out that “get­ting per­pet­u­al­ly grin­ning skulls to seem in agony is hard­er than you might think.” But if any time of the year is right for grin­ning skulls to express the human expe­ri­ence, sure­ly this is it.

via Hyper­al­ler­gic

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Free Art & Art His­to­ry Cours­es

19th-Cen­tu­ry Skele­ton Alarm Clock Remind­ed Peo­ple Dai­ly of the Short­ness of Life: An Intro­duc­tion to the Memen­to Mori

How Ancient Greek Stat­ues Real­ly Looked: Research Reveals Their Bold, Bright Col­ors and Pat­terns

An Artist Cro­chets a Life-Size, Anatom­i­cal­ly-Cor­rect Skele­ton, Com­plete with Organs

Cel­e­brate The Day of the Dead with The Clas­sic Skele­ton Art of José Guadalupe Posa­da

3D Scans of 7,500 Famous Sculp­tures, Stat­ues & Art­works: Down­load & 3D Print Rodin’s Thinker, Michelangelo’s David & More

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

The Incredible Six-Octave Vocal Range of Opera-Singing Punk Diva Nina Hagen

If you’re a read­er of this site, it’s like­ly you known the name Klaus Nomi, the diminu­tive Ger­man singer who stunned New Wave audi­ences in New York with his angel­ic sopra­no voice and opera cov­ers. If you know of Nomi, you like­ly know of Nina Hagen, who start­ed releas­ing records in her native East Ger­many in the late 70s, mix­ing opera with punk, funk, and reg­gae and cov­er­ing clas­sics from Tina Turn­er to The Tubes “White Punks on Dope.” She became a major star, but her name does not come up often these days. She is long over­due for a revival.

Like Nomi, Hagen was a mas­ter of fright make-up and exag­ger­at­ed, Expres­sion­ist faces. She did not, how­ev­er, have an alien alter-ego or col­lec­tion of space­suits. What she had was a whol­ly orig­i­nal style all her own, full of eccen­tric vocal­iza­tions crit­ic Robert Christ­gau com­pared to The Exor­cist’s Lin­da Blair.

Her stage shows were what Hagen her­self described as “inde­scrib­able.” She applied her “umpteen-octave range,” as Christ­gau wrote, with­out restraint to every imag­in­able kind of mate­r­i­al, from cabaret to Nor­man Greenbaum’s “Spir­it in the Sky.”

Impos­si­ble to clas­si­fy, Hagen was beloved by the likes of the Sex Pis­tols and the Slits. Less than a decade after her 1978 debut with the Nina Hagen Band, she appeared in Tokyo with the Japan­ese Phil­har­mon­ic Orches­tra in a con­cert broad­cast to 15 coun­tries, per­form­ing the songs of Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill. (See her that same year, 1985, sing from Car­men in Copen­hagen, Den­mark, just above.) She con­vert­ed to Chris­tian­i­ty lat­er in life, fre­quent­ly sings gospel tunes, and released an album called Per­son­al Jesus in 2010 fea­tur­ing a cov­er of the icon­ic Depeche Mode song.

Hagen emerged in 1978 along­side a num­ber of the­atri­cal female singers with preter­nat­u­ral­ly unset­tling voic­es, debut­ing at the same time as Siouxsie Sioux, Kate Bush, and Dia­man­da Galas (who has received her own com­par­isons to Lin­da Blair). But her own jour­ney was par­tic­u­lar­ly unusu­al. “Lis­ten­ing to Hagen chat mat­ter-of-fact­ly about her life,” wrote The Irish Times in a review, “Madon­na seems like Doris Day in com­par­i­son, while your pre­tender Lady Gaga is, in Hagen’s own words, ‘a pop pros­ti­tute who has more to do with biki­ni adver­tis­ing.’”

Put more in more pos­i­tive terms, the singer honed her the­atri­cal “quick-change” per­sona through a “bar­rage of influ­ences,” the New York Times not­ed. Crit­ics were divid­ed over her eclec­ti­cism. Rolling Stone called her 1982 solo, Eng­lish-lan­guage debut the “most unlis­ten­able” album ever made, an unfair­ly harsh assess­ment that did­n’t stop her from exper­i­ment­ing with even more dis­so­nant, dis­ori­ent­ing sounds.

As Hagen her­self tells her sto­ry:

I grew up in East Berlin, in a fam­i­ly of artists. I heard opera all day long. From the time I was 9 years old I was imi­tat­ing the singers; lat­er I stud­ied opera. But we also got West­ern tele­vi­sion and radio, from the Amer­i­cans in West Berlin. When I was 11 years old, I turned into a hip­pie and gave flow­ers to police­men. And when I was 21 and left Berlin for Lon­don, I became a punk.

She became a punk diva, that is. Hagen’s vocal range—which you can hear demon­strat­ed in the thor­ough video analy­sis above—over her band’s prog-like jams (as in “Naturträne), con­jured up both angels and demons. She evokes dread with gut­tur­al growls and wide-eyed stares, she can look “child­like, sweet or ter­ri­fy­ing,” or all three at once, and she nev­er lacks the essen­tial qual­i­ty an opera singer needs to make it in rock and roll: a sense of humor.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Klaus Nomi Per­forms with Kraftwerk on Ger­man Tele­vi­sion (1982)

Watch Klaus Nomi Debut His New Wave Vaude­ville Show: The Birth of the Opera-Singing Space Alien (1978)

33 Songs That Doc­u­ment the His­to­ry of Fem­i­nist Punk (1975–2015): A Playlist Curat­ed by Pitch­fork

How to Lis­ten to Music: A Free Course from Yale Uni­ver­si­ty

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

How Science Fiction Formed Jimi Hendrix

“Through the entire­ty of his short life Jimi Hen­drix was an avid fan of sci­ence fic­tion. As a young child Hen­drix and his broth­er Leon would escape their trou­bled upbring­ing by dream­ing up sto­ries of far-off plan­ets and fly­ing saucers.” So begins the Poly­phon­ic video above, an explo­ration of how sci-fi informed the apoc­a­lyp­tic images and spaced-out sounds in Hendrix’s songs. His love of sci­ence fic­tion “only inten­si­fied as an adult,” espe­cial­ly when Hen­drix moved in with Chas Chan­dler, who would become his man­ag­er and pro­duc­er, and who owned a large col­lec­tion of sci-fi nov­els.

The books Hen­drix read at the time pro­vid­ed him with the mate­r­i­al he need­ed for a psy­che­del­ic rev­o­lu­tion. He turned the “pur­plish haze” in Philip Jose Farmer’s Night of Light into “Pur­ple Haze.” The song’s lyrics ref­er­ence the dis­ori­ent­ing state of mind char­ac­ters in Farmer’s sto­ry expe­ri­ence from cos­mic radi­a­tion, while they also allude, of course, to oth­er kinds of altered states. Hen­drix didn’t just weave sci-fi themes and ref­er­ences into his songs. He and Chan­dler com­posed space-rock epics that expand­ed the pos­si­bil­i­ties of the elec­tric gui­tar and the record­ing stu­dio.

Third Stone from the Sun” is writ­ten “from the per­spec­tive of an alien scout who is observ­ing Earth from afar.” Though he deflects with humor and innu­en­do, the alien char­ac­ter in the song express­es com­plete dis­gust with human­i­ty: “Your peo­ple I do not under­stand / So to you I shall put an end.” In “Up from the Skies,” Hen­drix sings from “the per­spec­tive of one who lived on Earth long ago, and is dis­mayed at the state of the plan­et when he comes back to vis­it.” Call­ing the Earth a “peo­ple farm,” he says to the plan­et as a whole, “I heard some of you got your fam­i­lies / Liv­ing in cages.”

The video links Hendrix’s use of sci­ence fic­tion as social com­men­tary to some of the best-known writ­ers of the genre, includ­ing Aldous Hux­ley, Isaac Asi­mov, Stanis­law Lem, and Ursu­la K. LeGuin. These are wor­thy com­par­isons, to be sure, but there is anoth­er tra­di­tion in which to sit­u­ate him, one that had been at work in pop­u­lar music since Sun Ra first stepped onstage and claimed to be from out­er space. Hendrix’s respons­es to the “apoc­a­lyp­tic” images of the Viet­nam War and the mass protest, civ­il unrest, and racial strife in the U.S. draws on an Afro­fu­tur­ist lex­i­con as much as from pre­dom­i­nate­ly white sci-fi.

Coined in 1995 by crit­ic Mark Dery in con­ver­sa­tion with sci­ence fic­tion giant Samuel R. Delany, crit­ic Greg Tate, and Pro­fes­sor Tri­cia Rose, the term “Afro­fu­tur­ism” describes a hybrid sci-fi aes­thet­ic that ties togeth­er past, present, and future Black expe­ri­ences. “From Sun-Ra to Janelle Monáe, the appro­pri­a­tion of oth­er-world­ly and alien iconog­ra­phy estab­lish­es Afro-futur­ists as out­siders,” writes Mawe­na Yehoues­si. Afro­fu­tur­ism is the cre­ative expres­sion of dou­ble con­scious­ness: C. Bran­don Ogbunu traces the genre back to W.E.B. Du Bois’ 1920 short sto­ry “The Comet” and argues that the abil­i­ty of Black artists to view the cul­ture as both insid­ers and out­siders can “help us to con­sid­er uni­vers­es of bet­ter alter­na­tives.”

Hendrix’s nar­ra­tors describe apoc­a­lyp­tic visions, but they do so from the point-of-view of oth­er, bet­ter worlds, or bet­ter times, or, in “A Mer­man I Should Turn to Be”—perhaps one of Hendrix’s most tren­chant critiques—an under­sea refuge.

Well it’s too bad that our friends, can’t be with us today
Well it’s too bad
‘The machine, that we built,
Would nev­er save us’, that’s what they say
(That’s why they ain’t com­ing with us today)
And they also said it’s impos­si­ble for a man to live and breathe under
Water, for­ev­er,
Was their main com­plaint
And they also threw this in my face, they said:
Any­way, you know good and well it would be beyond the will of God,
And the grace of the King (grace of the King)
(Yeah, yeah)

The per­spec­tive seems to antic­i­pate the pes­simistic, post-apoc­a­lyp­tic visions of Octavia But­ler. It’s a view Afro­fu­tur­ist the­o­rist Kod­wo Eshun links to the expe­ri­ences of peo­ple of the African dias­po­ra gen­er­al­ly, who “live the estrange­ment that sci­ence-fic­tion writ­ers envi­sion. Black expe­ri­ence and sci­ence fic­tion are one and the same.” Afro­fu­tur­ism has “always looked for­ward,” Tay­lor Crump­ton writes at Clever, pro­vid­ing a “blue­print for cul­tur­al growth.” In Hendrix’s songs, we feel the urgent ten­sion between a world on fire and a desire to escape, resolv­ing, Poly­phon­ic con­cludes, with “hope in a new way of liv­ing.”

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Rare Footage of Jimi Hen­drix Per­form­ing “Voodoo Child” in Maui, Plus a Trail­er for a New Doc­u­men­tary on Jimi Hendrix’s Leg­endary Maui Per­for­mances (1970)

Behold Moe­bius’ Many Psy­che­del­ic Illus­tra­tions of Jimi Hen­drix

Watch a 5‑Part Ani­mat­ed Primer on Afro­fu­tur­ism, the Black Sci-Fi Phe­nom­e­non Inspired by Sun Ra

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

The Great Illustration That Accompanied Eddie Van Halen’s Application to the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (1987)

Through­out the past week, we’ve read many trib­utes to Eddie Van Halen and his end­less capac­i­ty for inno­va­tion. Styl­is­ti­cal­ly, EVH changed the sound of rock with tap­ping, a tech­nique that let him play rapid arpeg­gios with two hands on the gui­tar’s fret­board. (Exhib­it A is here.) Tech­ni­cal­ly, he cre­at­ed a unique sound by fash­ion­ing his own gui­tar, the Franken­strat, which meld­ed the sounds of Gib­son and Fend­er gui­tars. And what’s more, he patent­ed three inven­tions, one of which came with the daz­zling illus­tra­tion above. Edward L. Van Halen’s 1987 patent for a “musi­cal instru­ment sup­port” was described as fol­lows:

A sup­port­ing device for stringed musi­cal instru­ments, for exam­ple, gui­tars, ban­jos, man­dolins and the like… The sup­port­ing device is con­struct­ed and arranged for sup­port­ing the musi­cal instru­ment on the play­er to per­mit total free­dom of the play­er’s hands to play the instru­ment in a com­plete­ly new way, thus allow­ing the play­er to cre­ate new tech­niques and sounds pre­vi­ous­ly unknown to any play­er. The device, when in its oper­a­tional posi­tion, has a plate which rests upon the play­er’s leg leav­ing both hands free to explore the musi­cal instru­ment as nev­er before. Because the musi­cal instru­ment is arranged per­pen­dic­u­lar to the play­er’s body, the play­er has max­i­mum vis­i­bil­i­ty of the instru­men­t’s entire play­ing sur­face.

What would this device look like? The graph­ic above visu­al­izes it all. Find the illus­tra­tion in the patent appli­ca­tion here.

Back in 2015, Van Halen wrote a piece in Pop­u­lar Mechan­ics dis­cussing his patents and oth­er tech­ni­cal work on gui­tars and amps. For those who want to delve deep­er into his tin­ker­ing, read the arti­cle here.

via Brad­ford Peter­son & Boing Boing

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book and BlueSky.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch Some of Eddie Van Halen’s (RIP) Great­est Per­for­mances: “Shred­ding Was Eddie’s Very Essence”

15-Year-Old French Gui­tar Prodi­gy Flaw­less­ly Rips Through Solos by Eddie Van Halen, David Gilmour, Yng­wie Malm­steen & Steve Vai

Musi­cal Come­di­an Reg­gie Watts Rein­vents Van Halen’s Clas­sic, “Pana­ma”

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The David Lynch Retrospective: A Two Hour Video Essay on Lynch’s Complete Filmography, from Eraserhead to Inland Empire

If you were to watch David Lynch’s com­plete fil­mog­ra­phy from begin­ning to end, how would you see real­i­ty after­ward? Video essay­ist Lewis Bond sure­ly has some idea. As the cre­ator of Chan­nel Criswell, whose exam­i­na­tions of auteurs like Andrei TarkovskyFran­cis Ford Cop­po­la, and Mar­tin Scors­ese we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured here on Open Cul­ture, he once released a med­i­ta­tion on what makes a Lynch film “Lynchi­an.” Now, under the new ban­ner of The Cin­e­ma Car­tog­ra­phy (and in part­ner­ship with film stream­ing ser­vice MUBI), Bond not only returns to the well of the Lynchi­an, but plunges in deeply enough to come up with The David Lynch Ret­ro­spec­tive.

In two hours, this video essay makes a jour­ney through all the dark recess­es of Lynch’s fea­ture fil­mog­ra­phy — a fil­mog­ra­phy that, admit­ted­ly, can at times seem made up of noth­ing but dark recess­es. It begins in 1977 with Eraser­head, Lynch’s first full-length pic­ture as well as his least remit­ting. How­ev­er har­row­ing its bio­me­chan­i­cal strange­ness, that debut drew the eye of Hol­ly­wood, result­ing in Lynch’s hir­ing to direct The Ele­phant Man, a chiaroscuro vision of the life of deformed 19th-cen­tu­ry Eng­lish­man Joseph Mer­rick. There fol­lows the infa­mous Dune, which finds Lynch at the helm (at least nom­i­nal­ly) of a $40-mil­lion adap­ta­tion of Frank Her­bert’s sci­ence-fic­tion epic, an extrav­a­gant mis­match as was ever made between direc­tor and mate­r­i­al.

Bond men­tions that he con­sid­ered exclud­ing Dune from The David Lynch Ret­ro­spec­tive, see­ing as the direc­tor him­self has dis­owned the pic­ture. Still, no Lynch enthu­si­ast can deny that it brought him to the artis­ti­cal­ly uncom­pro­mis­ing posi­tions that have made the rest of his body of work what it is. But what, exact­ly, is it? Bond draws some pos­si­bil­i­ties from Blue Vel­vet, Lynch’s return to the art house whose mem­o­rably oneir­ic fusion of idyl­lic small-town Amer­i­ca with sadism and voyeurism also func­tions as a state­ment of philo­soph­i­cal and aes­thet­ic intent. Not that Lynch is giv­en to state­ments, per se: as Bond empha­sizes in a vari­ety of ways, none of these works admit of direct expli­ca­tion, and this holds as true for the ultra-pas­tiche road movie Wild at Heart as it does for the split-per­son­al­i­ty neo-noir Lost High­way.

Then comes 1999’s The Straight Sto­ry, a movie about an old man who dri­ves a trac­tor across the Amer­i­can Mid­west to vis­it his broth­er. Bond frames the lat­ter as the most Lynchi­an choice the direc­tor could have made, its seem­ing­ly thor­ough mun­dan­i­ty shed­ding light on his per­cep­tion of cin­e­ma and real­i­ty itself. It also low­ers the Lynch-fil­mog­ra­phy binge-watcher’s psy­cho­log­i­cal defens­es for the simul­ta­ne­ous Hol­ly­wood fan­ta­sy and night­mare to come, Mul­hol­land Dri­ve. Though Bond describes it as “the zenith of all that’s Lynchi­an,” not every fan agrees that it’s Lynch’s mas­ter­piece: some opt for the impen­e­tra­ble three-hour dose of pure Lynchi­an­ism (and cryp­tic sit­com rab­bits) that is Inland Empire. Bond describes Inland Empire, still Lynch’s most recent fea­ture, as “a tor­tur­ous film, and this should be seen only as com­pli­men­ta­ry.” There speaks a true Lynchi­an.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

What Makes a David Lynch Film Lynchi­an: A Video Essay

A Young David Lynch Talks About Eraser­head in One of His First Record­ed Inter­views (1979)

How David Lynch Manip­u­lates You: A Close Read­ing of Mul­hol­land Dri­ve

Watch an Epic, 4‑Hour Video Essay on the Mak­ing & Mythol­o­gy of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks

Twin Peaks Actu­al­ly Explained: A Four-Hour Video Essay Demys­ti­fies It All

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

A Virtual Table Read of Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Featuring Jennifer Aniston, Morgan Freeman, Shia LaBeouf, Sean Penn, Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, John Legend & More

If you will for­give a gross over­sim­pli­fi­ca­tion, there are two kinds of peo­ple in this world:

Those (like me) who, hav­ing seen Fast Times at Ridge­mont High the night before the first day of their senior year of high school, made sure to pack car­rots in their lunch­box­es, and those who were too young to see it in its orig­i­nal release, pos­si­bly because they hadn’t been born yet.

For those of us in the first group, Feel­in’ A‑Live’s #Fast­Times­Live, a vir­tu­al table read of the script for Cameron Crowe’s 1982 semi-auto­bi­o­graph­i­cal teen sex romp, is a bit of a tough sell, even as a fundrais­er for two good caus­es: the COVID-19 relief orga­ni­za­tion CORE and REFORM Alliance, which is ded­i­cat­ed to crim­i­nal jus­tice reform and staunch­ing COVID-19’s spread with­in the incar­cer­at­ed pop­u­la­tion.

It’s kind of a mess.

Pos­si­bly we’re just crab­by from all the Zoom per­for­mances we’ve watched and tak­en part in over the last 6+ months.

Were we sup­posed to be charmed that this live, unre­hearsed per­for­mance fea­tured A‑list movie stars, bum­bling through like reg­u­lar Joes cir­ca April 2020?

Ray Liot­ta, repris­ing the late Ray Wal­ston’s author­i­ty fig­ure, Mr. Hand, is ham­strung by his old school paper script, ensur­ing that most of his lines will be deliv­ered with down­cast eyes.

Julia Roberts, as 15-year-old hero­ine, Sta­cy, is win­some­ly fresh, but out of focus.

Is it this blur­ri­ness of the tech­ni­cal dif­fi­cul­ties that caused the pro­duc­tion, orig­i­nal­ly con­ceived of as a fea­ture-length table read, to be re-pack­aged as a sort of high­lights trib­ute?

(Roberts’ com­put­er glitch appears to have been cleared up after orga­niz­er Dane Cook’s first inter­rup­tion to encour­age dona­tions (cur­rent­ly stand­ing at a $2,132, which is par­tic­u­lar­ly dis­ap­point­ing giv­en that the film took in $2,545,674 its open­ing week­end, in 1992.))

Jen­nifer Anis­ton, in the role orig­i­nat­ed by Sev­en­teen mod­el, Phoebe Cates, is pre­dictably fun­ny, and also brings pro­fes­sion­al qual­i­ty make up and light­ing to the pro­ceed­ings, but it’s some­how unjust that her celebri­ty sta­tus excus­es her face-obscur­ing hair­do. Actress­es of her gen­er­a­tion, lack­ing her star pow­er, ply­ing their trade on Zoom are invari­ably ordered to bar­rette up.

The tech­ni­cal prob­lems were not enough to spare us from a reen­act­ment of the film’s most noto­ri­ous scene, in which Stacy’s old­er broth­er, orig­i­nal­ly played by Judge Rein­hold, now brought to life by Anniston’s ex, Brad Pitt, fan­ta­sizes about Cates unclasp­ing her biki­ni top, only to be barged in on enjoy­ing an extreme­ly pri­vate moment by the very object of those fan­tasies.

It’s at the 37 minute mark, FYI.

A fit­ting pun­ish­ment for those of us who, remem­ber­ing the tabloid head­lines, eager­ly focused on Aniston’s face as Pitt was being intro­duced.

It wouldn’t hold a can­dle to the now-prob­lem­at­ic orig­i­nal, if Pitt weren’t blush­ing and Mor­gan Free­man weren’t read­ing the stage direc­tions.

(“Do you want me to use my Lorne Greene sonorous voice or just read like I’m not here?”)

Many view­ers picked up on the play­ers’ seem­ing­ly cool recep­tion of their cast­mate, Method actor, Shia LaBeouf, born four years after the orig­i­nal film’s release. In the role of surfin’ ston­er, Jeff Spi­coli, he was tasked with some very big shoes to fill.

It’s a trib­ute to orig­i­nal Spi­coli, activist Sean Penn’s ver­sa­til­i­ty that he wasn’t for­ev­er type­cast as vari­ants on his star mak­ing role. As the only mem­ber of the orig­i­nal cast in atten­dance (as well as the founder of one of the des­ig­nat­ed char­i­ties), he alone seems to be enjoy­ing the hell out of LaBeouf’s scene steal­ing antics.

Writer Crowe and direc­tor Amy Heck­er­ling dish on his audi­tion at the end of the pro­ceed­ings, and in so doing shed some light on LaBeouf’s eccen­tric­i­ties, and the oth­ers’ wari­ness.

Even though the sto­ry con­flicts, some­what, with the cast­ing director’s rec­ol­lec­tion below, we’re will­ing to take it on faith that LaBeouf’s fel­lows’ fail­ure to clap for him is as much a part of the joke as Pitt’s game use of icon­ic head­gear.

Dane Cook hedged his bets in def­er­ence to those who may not have lived through the peri­od par­o­died by the film:

One more thing, before we start, the big dis­claimer with a cap­i­tal D, a whole lot of beliefs and lan­guage have changed since this came out, so don’t @ us, unless it’s to donate. Remem­ber, it was a cer­tain time and place, and the sen­ti­ments in the script do not reflect the peo­ple read­ing it today. They do reflect the fic­tion­al char­ac­ters from an imag­i­nary school in a total­ly make believe sto­ry, got it?

We get it!

The recast­ing with actors the same age as Jen­nifer Jason Leigh (Sta­cy) and Phoebe Cates remains a bit­ter pill, but per­haps it spares us all com­ments fix­at­ing on the rav­ages of time. Instead, we get to hear about the “time­less” beau­ty of Annis­ton and Roberts.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Delet­ed Scene from Almost Famous: Mom, “Stair­way to Heav­en” is Based on the Lit­er­a­ture of Tolkien

1980s Met­al­head Kids Are Alright: Sci­en­tif­ic Study Shows That They Became Well-Adjust­ed Adults

10 Tips From Bil­ly Wilder on How to Write a Good Screen­play

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

Requiem for a Dream: The Cast & Crew Reunite 20 Years Later

Cour­tesy of the Muse­um of Mod­ern Art: “Dar­ren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream has only grown in stature since its explo­sive debut in 2000. His har­row­ing and influ­en­tial visu­al depic­tion of addic­tion and depen­den­cy across four char­ac­ters in Brook­lyn is a film that’s still whis­pered about in tones of rev­er­ence.” To cel­e­brate 20th anniver­sary, Aronof­sky and actors Ellen Burstyn, Jared Leto, Jen­nifer Con­nel­ly, and Mar­lon Wayans reunit­ed to recon­sid­er the film and its impact on cin­e­ma and cul­ture. This vir­tu­al con­ver­sa­tion was mod­er­at­ed by Rajen­dra Roy, the Celeste Bar­tos Chief Cura­tor of Film. If you become a MoMA mem­ber, you will gain access to more spe­cial events along these lines.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book and BlueSky.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

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Charlie Chaplin & Buster Keaton Go Toe to Toe (Almost) in a Hilarious Boxing Scene Mash Up from Their Classic Silent Films

Coke or Pep­si?

Box­ers or briefs?

Char­lie Chap­lin or Buster Keaton?

A dif­fi­cult choice that usu­al­ly boils down to per­son­al taste…

In the case of the two silent screen greats, they evinced dif­fer­ent per­son­al­i­ties, but both were pos­sessed of phys­i­cal grace, a tremen­dous work eth­ic, and the abil­i­ty to make audi­ences root for the lit­tle guy.

Their endur­ing influ­ence on phys­i­cal com­e­dy is evi­dent in the box­ing scene mash up above, which pulls from Keaton’s star turn in 1926’s Bat­tling But­ler and Chaplin’s wide­ly cel­e­brat­ed City Lights from 1931.

Even cut up and spliced back togeth­er in alter­nat­ing shots, it’s a mas­ter class on build­ing antic­i­pa­tion, defy­ing expec­ta­tions, and the humor of rep­e­ti­tion.

Both films’ plots hinge on a mild fel­low going to extra­or­di­nary lengths to prove him­self wor­thy of the girl he loves.

Chap­lin, besot­ted with a blind flower-sell­er, is drawn into the ring by the prospect of prize mon­ey, which he would use to cov­er her unpaid rent.

His oppo­nent is played by Hank Mann, the brains behind the Key­stone Cops peri­od who went on to work with Jer­ry Lewis.

The pas de trois between the ref and the two box­ers rep­re­sents the pin­na­cle of Chaplin’s long affin­i­ty for the sport, fol­low­ing 1914’s Key­stone short, The Knock­out and 1915’s The Cham­pi­on.

Bat­tling But­ler is built on a case of delib­er­ate­ly mis­tak­en iden­ti­ty, after Keaton’s mil­que­toast rich boy impress­es his work­ing class sweetheart’s fam­i­ly by allow­ing them to think he is a famous box­er whose name he inci­den­tal­ly shares.

The fight scenes were filmed in LA’s brand new Olympic Audi­to­ri­um, aka the Punch Palace, which went on to serve as a loca­tion for the more recent box­ing clas­sics Rocky (1976) and Mil­lion Dol­lar Baby (2004).

The edi­tor who thought to score this mashup to Mari­achi Internacional’s cov­er of Zor­ba El Griego is cer­tain­ly a con­tender in their own right, but read­ers, what we real­ly want to know is in this cham­pi­onship round between Chap­lin and Keaton, who would you declare the win­ner?

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Dis­cov­er the Cin­e­mat­ic & Comedic Genius of Char­lie Chap­lin with 60+ Free Movies Online

What Would the World of Char­lie Chap­lin Look Like in Col­or?: Watch a Col­or­ful­ly Restored Ver­sion of A Night at the Show (1915)

A Super­cut of Buster Keaton’s Most Amaz­ing Stunts

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The Story of the SynthAxe, the Astonishing 1980s Guitar Synthesizer: Only 100 Were Ever Made

What is the musi­cal instru­ment most thor­ough­ly of the 1980s? Many would say the “key­tar,” a class of syn­the­siz­er key­boards shaped and worn like a gui­tar. Their rel­a­tive­ly light weights and afford­able prices, even when first brought to mar­ket, put key­tars with­in the reach of musi­cians who want­ed to pos­sess both the wide son­ic palette of dig­i­tal syn­the­sis and the inher­ent cool of the gui­tarist. This arrange­ment was­n’t with­out its com­pro­mis­es: few key­tar play­ers enjoyed the full range of that son­ic palette, to say noth­ing of that cool. But in 1985, a new hope appeared for the syn­the­siz­er-envy­ing gui­tarist and gui­tar-envy­ing syn­the­sist alike: the Syn­thAxe.

Cre­at­ed by Eng­lish inven­tors Bill Aitken, Mike Dixon, and Tony Sedi­vy (and fund­ed in part by Richard Bran­son’s Vir­gin Group), the Syn­thAxe made a quan­tum leap in the devel­op­ment of syn­the­siz­er-gui­tars, or gui­tar-syn­the­siz­ers. Unlike a key­tar, it used actu­al strings — not just one but two inde­pen­dent sets of them — that when played could con­trol any syn­the­siz­er com­pat­i­ble with the recent­ly intro­duced Musi­cal Instru­ment Dig­i­tal Inter­face (MIDI) stan­dard.

As Gui­tarist mag­a­zine edi­tor Neville Marten demon­strates in the con­tem­po­rary pro­mo­tion­al video at the top of the post, this grant­ed any­one who could play the gui­tar com­mand of all the sounds cut­ting-edge syn­the­siz­ers could make.

Not that mas­tery of the gui­tar trans­lat­ed imme­di­ate­ly into mas­tery of the Syn­thAxe: even the most pro­fi­cient gui­tarist had to get used to the unusu­al­ly sharp angle of its neck, its even­ly spaced frets, and the set of keys embed­ded in its body. (“That is the point, it’s not a gui­tar,” as Aitken took pains to explain.) You can see Lee Rite­nour make use of both the Syn­thAx­e’s strings and keys in the 1985 con­cert clip above. Nick­named “Cap­tain Fin­gers” due to his sheer dex­ter­i­ty, Rite­nour had been in search of ways to expand his sound, exper­i­ment­ing with gui­tar-syn­the­siz­er hybrid sys­tems even in the 70s. When the Syn­thAxe came along, not only did he record a whole album with it, that album’s cov­er is a paint­ing of him with the strik­ing new instru­ment in hand.

So is the cov­er of Atavachron, the first album Allan Holdsworth record­ed after meet­ing the Syn­thAx­e’s cre­ators at a trade show. No gui­tarist would take up the Syn­thAxe with the same fer­vor: Holdsworth, seen play­ing it with a breath con­troller (!) in the clip above, would con­tin­ue to use it on his record­ings up until his death in 2017. “Peo­ple used to write notes on my amp, ask­ing me to stop play­ing the Syn­thAxe and play the gui­tar instead,” he told Gui­tar World in his final inter­view that year. “But now peo­ple often ask me, ‘We’d love to hear you play the Syn­thAxe — did you bring it?’ I rarely play it onstage any­more because it’s too cost­ly to take on the road and it requires a lot of equip­ment.”

The amount of asso­ci­at­ed gear no doubt put many an aspir­ing syn­the­siz­er-gui­tarist off the Syn­thAxe. (“It’s about as portable as a drum kit isn’t,” writes ear­ly adopter John Hol­lis.) So must the price tag, a cool £10,000 back in 1985. This did­n’t put off gui­tarist Alec Stans­field, whose enthu­si­asm for the Syn­thAxe as was such that he joined the com­pa­ny, hav­ing “knocked long and hard on their door until they gave me a job as a pro­duc­tion engi­neer.” Alas, he writes, “the instru­ment was nev­er a com­mer­cial suc­cess and even­tu­al­ly the com­pa­ny ceased trad­ing. Few­er than 100 instru­ments had been pro­duced in total. In the final months I was paid with a Syn­thAxe sys­tem since cash was tight” — a sys­tem he shows off in the video above

Stans­field sold off his Syn­thAxe in 2013, but what has become of the oth­ers? One of Rite­nour’s Syn­thAx­es even­tu­al­ly found its way into the pos­ses­sion of Roy Wil­fred Wooten, bet­ter known as Future Man of Béla Fleck and the Fleck­tones. “Over a peri­od of time, he began mod­i­fy­ing it into an almost entire­ly new instru­ment: the Syn­thAxe Dru­mi­tar,” writes Com­put­er His­to­ry Muse­um cura­tor Chris Gar­cia. “This sys­tem, which replaced the strings as the pri­ma­ry trig­ger­ing mech­a­nism, allowed Wooten to play the ‘drums’ using the gui­tar-like device.” In the con­cert clip just above, you can behold Future Man play­ing and explain­ing this “Syn­thAxe­Dru­mi­tar,” sounds like a drum kit but looks like a gui­tar — though rather vague­ly, at this point. Call it Syn­thAxe-meets-Mad Max.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Behold the First Elec­tric Gui­tar: The 1931 “Fry­ing Pan”

Bri­an May’s Home­made Gui­tar, Made From Old Tables, Bike and Motor­cy­cle Parts & More

Hear Musi­cians Play the Only Playable Stradi­var­ius Gui­tar in the World: The “Sabionari”

The Nano Gui­tar: Dis­cov­er the World’s Small­est, Playable Micro­scop­ic Gui­tar

How the Yama­ha DX7 Dig­i­tal Syn­the­siz­er Defined the Sound of 1980s Music

Every­thing Thing You Ever Want­ed to Know About the Syn­the­siz­er: A Vin­tage Three-Hour Crash Course

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall, on Face­book, or on Insta­gram.

A Live Studio Cover of Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon, Played from Start to Finish

Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon is such a work of art that to split it up into nine tracks–like clas­sic rock radio has done for years–always sounds non­sen­si­cal. How can you just end “Breathe” on that final chord and not fol­low it with the ana­log drones of “On the Run”? How can you play “Brain Dam­age” and not end with “Eclipse”? And how dare you fade the long coda of “Mon­ey” and segue into a car com­mer­cial?

You can’t, moral­ly speak­ing, I’m telling you.

So that’s why I like the cut of the jib of the Mar­tin Miller Ses­sion Band, who com­mit to cov­er­ing the entire­ty of Dark Side of the Moon in this one long stu­dio per­for­mance. Accord­ing to Miller’s Patre­on page, this is the only full album they’ve cov­ered so far, and they pull through admirably.

And the thing that is refresh­ing here is that the band cov­ers the album up to a point, but not slav­ish­ly. It’s not the Flam­ing Lips’ decon­struc­tion or the sur­pris­ing­ly still lis­ten­able 8‑Bit ver­sion, but nei­ther is it the kind of trib­ute band like Brit Floyd (below). When Miller solos, he’s not aping David Gilmour. The key­boardist Mar­ius Leicht has his own knobs to twid­dle, so to speak. And drum­mer Felix Lehrmann will nev­er ever be con­fused for Nick Mason. (In fact, he gets a lot of grief in the com­ments for being too flash, but when you watch Miller’s oth­er videos and see him giv­ing Stew­art Copeland a run for his mon­ey on their Police med­ley, you see where he’s com­ing from.)

Know­ing what you’re in for, ques­tions arise: are they going to include the var­i­ous spo­ken sam­ples sprin­kled through­out (“I don’t know I was real­ly drunk at the time,” “There is no dark side of the moon real­ly…”). Answer: yes indeed, and fun­ny they are too. Does a sax­o­phon­ist turn up for “Mon­ey” and “Us and Them”? Answer: Yes, and it’s Michal Skul­s­ki. Who can pos­si­bly match Clare Torry’s pipes on “The Great Gig in the Sky”? Jen­ny Marsala does, thank you very much.

So I would set­tle in and try to unlearn your mem­o­ry of every note and beat on the 1973 clas­sic. By doing so, you’ll hear the album anew.

And after that, if you’re still han­ker­ing for that “even bet­ter than the real thing” vibe, enjoy this full con­cert, cir­cu­lar pro­jec­tion screen and all, by the afore­men­tioned Brit Floyd, play­ing Liv­er­pool in 2011.

via metafil­ter

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Dark Side of the Moon Project: Watch an 8‑Part Video Essay on Pink Floyd’s Clas­sic Album

Clare Torry’s Rare Live Per­for­mances of “Great Gig in the Sky” with Pink Floyd

Pink Floyd Films a Con­cert in an Emp­ty Audi­to­ri­um, Still Try­ing to Break Into the U.S. Charts (1970)

Bea­t­les Trib­ute Band “The Fab Faux” Per­forms Live an Amaz­ing­ly Exact Repli­ca of the Orig­i­nal Abbey Road Med­ley

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts who cur­rent­ly hosts the Notes from the Shed pod­cast and is the pro­duc­er of KCR­W’s Curi­ous Coast. You can also fol­low him on Twit­ter at @tedmills, and/or watch his films here.


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